


Comfits

by bluecuriolady



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecuriolady/pseuds/bluecuriolady
Summary: A soliloquy on the joys of social engagements. The Neurasthenic Assassin retires to a fainting couch to deal with his little headache. The Lamenting Lithographer makes the Loquacious Vicar into an instrument of diplomatic vengeance.
Relationships: The Neurasthenic Assassin/The Lamenting Lithographer, The Neurasthenic Assassin/Tomb Colonist OC
Kudos: 3





	Comfits

The party swirls on about you. A cacophonous blend of sound, lights, and overwhelming social "pleasantries". The whole business is like an ice pick to your brain. If only you could escape, just for the briefest moment. 

An opportunity opens up. A polite fiction about visiting the refreshment table allows you to slip into the library. There you fall heavily into the cushioned embrace of the couch. Maybe you can hide in here for while. You can no longer hear the sounds of the party. Your head still throbs from the raucous shouts and the heat. You'll just lay here and recuperate for a few minutes. 

Your not sure how much time has passed, other than its not enough, when the door swings open. You stare blearily at the slight figure before you, vision not quite focused. The man's face is obscured by swathes of bandages, as well as a red domino mask. A tomb colonist then. 

A most familiar tomb colonist in fact, the monochromatic stripes of his wrappings give him away. The Lamenting Lithographer, a part time painter and collector of obscure tomes. As well as a thief and illicit supplier of banned books. You struggle to sit up, but the pain in your skull leaves you wincing and prone. 

"Are you feeling alright?" he says concern trickling into his voice like treacle. 

"It's just a spell, I'm sure it will go." you lie through gritted teeth. Your quite sure that it won't, you can feel the headache vibrating through your entire skeleton. 

"Can I get you anything? Some water, perhaps?" he says.

You are about to reply when the thought of your father finding you in this state crosses your mind. Oh what an evening you've had dealing with your sire. His title, the Choleric Earl, has been well earned. The man is thoroughly dedicated to finding any your inadequacies and informing you of them in vast detail. 

You hadn't realized your father would be here, which is how he managed to corner you in the garden. He proceeded to eviscerate you with a exhaustive dissection of how your lack of a decent profession relates to your lack of character. Not that he was worried about the immorality of your "little hobby", oh no! He just wants you to work in a proper career. And get married to someone you hate. Doesn't matter who, but you'll be sure to dislike them after you get married, that's just how it is! You managed to give him the slip when your host entered the room, but your certain he will find you later. 

However with the Lithographer here it would make for an embarrassing scene. And your father loathes scenes. 

"You could stay with me." you say a faint whine creeping into your voice. You hold your hand out towards him, entreating his company.

An embarrassing display? Yes. Still it yields the desired effect. He reaches out and curls his fingers around yours. You push yourself up a bit so he can sit down beside you. 

In a bid to slow potential escape you lay your head on his lap. Right. That's your only motivation. It's soothing though. The scent of bergamot clings lightly to his suit, mixed with the cedar wax scent of candles.

He runs his hand slowly over your hair. "Might I?" 

Ah yes, you had your hair tied back and forgot it in your haste to escape the party. "Please." 

He pulls the ribbon from your hair. You can feel some of the pressure easing off your skull. He strokes your head, the repetition of the gesture fast becoming soporific. 

As you lie there, you conjure up images of a couch in a much darker room, lit only faintly by the glow of candles. Surrounded by the mismatched shelves of the Lithographer's library. Unhindered by the constant tinkling of the band. Relaxing in the blissful silence. Left alone to nap on the Lithographer's lap. 

You could stay there for hours, uninterrupted. The soft sound of his voice reading some sultry passage. Half asleep as he changes the subject. Cosseted and caressed. 

What a pleasing thought that is. 

Your dozing a bit when he speaks. 

"Do you want to leave?" he inquires. 

The idea tantalizes you. How to pull it off without your father noticing is another question.

"I think my sire might prove a bit of an impediment to that plan." you say dryly. 

As you are voicing your doubts, a knock at the door tolls the funerial bell of your doom. You swiftly push yourself up from the Lithographer's lap. 

And who should walk in but the Loquacious Vicar, one of the worst possible people to meet in your present condition. The most gabbering, blathering churchman of all time. The only person more painful to your ears is the Bishop, but what the Vicar lacks in volume he makes up for in sheer quantity of chatter. 

"If it isn't the Neurasthenic Assassin and the Lamenting Lithographer, I've been looking for you! I wanted to regale you with some exciting research!" he says. 

"I'm so pleased to see you." the Lithographer says with all evidence of delight. 

Your head throbs and you try not to let the feeling of betrayal show on your face. Unfortunately this delays your response, giving the Vicar an opening, and he leaps into the conversational gap like a shark scenting blood in the water. 

"Well let me bring you up to speed on my current work!" I've started writing a second volume! It discusses the flora of the infernal. It categorizes the symbolism of flowers that grow in the diabolical realm. My book also touches on the unusual materials these plants consist of. I've included a chart demonstrating the varying flammability of floral forms. And theories on how the denizens of hell interact with this vegetal matter." 

"For instance one my sources from Summerset says that those demons lent to taking on the forms of caprines delight in the ingestion of black roses, but another scholar from Benthic disagrees. Now I have not had a chance to witness the efficacy of this first hand, however the habits of regular goats would lend credence to this theory. On the other hand this supposes that these devilish ungulates have similar dietary needs despite the difference in climes." 

"How fascinating!" The Lithographer chirps.

"Speaking of your writings, I was wondering if you might enlighten a friend of mine on some of the finer points of your research. The Choleric Earl was asking about some of the habits of devils and well, I didn't feel knowledgeable enough on the subject matter to help." says the Lithographer. 

The Lithographer quickly glances around the room, which he knows full well contains only the three of you, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He was asking about the, oh dear how to phrase this, the courting habits of devils, and it just seemed a little bit too sordid and indelicate to discuss." 

You watch in enchanted horror as the Vicar peels out of the room, eager to spend the rest of the evening annoying your father. 

"Want to come back home with me, sweetheart? I've got a soft bed for you." says the Lithographer. 

You sob with relief and take his hand.


End file.
